Out of Time
by Erinya
Summary: Back by popular demand. After buying a souvenir from a strange shop in New Orleans, Leah discovers she got more than she bargained for, in the form of a certain pirate captain. Time travel and other nonsense. Rated for language.
1. Out of Time

Disclaimer: Jack Sparrow does not belong to me. I have no right to pull him out of his proper time and drag him around my modern world. But I have a mind to do it anyway.  
  
A/N: I don't know where this is going. I don't know why I let my muse talk me into writing it. I have an epic to finish, goddamnit. But no, here I am writing my own version of a tale that's already been done and redone...with time travel and everything. You see, I had a dream this afternoon that Jack Sparrow was in my living room. Yeah. I could have just left it at that. But I didn't. I've never done a story like this before, so my apologies if it sucks. Let me know if it's worth continuing...There's already part of Chapter 2 written. I don't know if I'll go on from there.  
  
  
  
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Chapter 1: Out of Time  
  
  
  
You're going to think I'm crazy.  
  
Daft, in fact. As *he* would put it....  
  
Lord knows, I thought I was crazy, for awhile. And I still would. Except...Well, I have proof. But I'll get to that later.  
  
It all began with our summer trip to New Orleans. We'd been planning it for years. Neither of us had ever been there before. It was supposed to be our last hurrah, I guess, as I was off to grad school at the beginning of the winter/spring semester, and Adri was joining the Air Force come August. And we'd always wanted to make this trip, ever since high school, when we'd become obsessed with Anne Rice's vampire novels.  
  
No, this story has nothing to do with Anne Rice, or vampires. No pale Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise lookalikes here. Sorry.  
  
So, anyway...  
  
***  
  
June in New Orleans is bloody hot as hell. Of course, being a California girl, I'm used to sun. It was the humidity that got to me...  
  
What's a California girl doing using the word "bloody," you ask? I'm not trying to affect a British accent, if that's what you think. Blame *him.* That's where I picked it up.  
  
Yes, I'm getting to him. In a second.  
  
So there we were, two horribly touristy twenty-somethings wandering through the French Quarter. We were lost. I admit it, my sense of direction really sucks. Especially after I've been up all night clubbing, and then am woken up the next morning by an over-enthusiastic best friend with a shopping fixation. Honestly, Adriana's more girly than I am, sometimes, even though she's tough as nails and could kick the asses of most guys I know.  
  
She'd lept onto the bed, shaking me awake, and I'd pulled the covers over my head. It was god-awfully bright in the room. I was sore all over.  
  
"Leave me 'lone, 'Dri."  
  
She yanked the covers off. "C'mon, Miss Thang, you've been asleep practically all day! What did you do last night, anyway?"  
  
I opened my eyes, squinted at her, and then shut them tight again, rolled over, and buried my face in the pillow.  
  
"I'm gonna take the fifth on that one," I said, hoping she didn't hear me.  
  
She didn't take the hint. Instead, she jumped on top of me and stole my pillow. "Silly Leah-girl," she said in my ear, much too loudly. "When are you going to learn that drugs are bad for you?"  
  
Shit. I thought I'd hidden it well enough, when we'd run into each other in the club.  
  
"It was just one pill, all right?" I grumbled. "And I had a good time."  
  
(And before you decide I'm a drug addict who just went on an acid binge and hallucinated this entire story, get over it. That time in New Orleans was the first time I'd done anything in months, and I haven't since. Haven't really wanted to make everything *more* unreal.)  
  
She laughed at me. "I know you did, sweetie. It's fine." She cuffed me affectionately on the shoulder, and I grunted in pain. Ecstasy does not leave you with happy muscles, the next morning. "I just worry about you sometimes, that's all. But honestly. Did you really think you could fool me? Your pupils were still huge when I dragged you out of there, and then you stared at the ceiling and fidgeted for hours, with your headphones on. Now get up! We only have a day and a half left already."  
  
"All right, all right. I'm up, damnit."  
  
I got up and stumbled into the bathroom, where I stared blearily into the mirror. My short reddish-brown hair stuck up every which way, and I had mascara circles under my eyes.  
  
Which were still partially dilated. Considerably less hazel-green iris was showing than usual.  
  
"Fuck me," I muttered. This was definitely going to be a good day to wear sunglasses.  
  
Two and a half hours later, we were lost. As I've said. And I was dehydrated. Naturally. Yes, yes, I know. Stupid. I should have brought a water bottle with me. I wasn't thinking very clearly.  
  
Adri saw how pale I was. "Oh, shit. You ok?"  
  
"I need...to get out...of the sun," I said faintly.  
  
"C'mon." She grabbed my arm and dragged me into the nearest shop. I caught a brief glimpse of a hand-painted sign that declared the store's name, in archaic lettering:  
  
*Out of Time.*  
  
Inside, it was oddly dark, which I appreciated more than I cared to mention to Adri; the store was tiny, and cramped, but at least it was air conditioned. I sank down gratefully onto a antique-looking chair in the corner.  
  
"Lee! Look at this!" Adriana picked up a long, slightly rusty sword. It looked real. Her eyes were shining with excitement...she's always been a huge history freak, going to Renaissance fairs and all that stuff. "It's from colonial times. Probably the late 1600's."  
  
"That's pretty cool," I said, trying to muster a little enthusiasm. I really felt like shit. My stomach hurt, too.  
  
"It's perfectly balanced, too," she gushed, turning it over in her hands. Then her face fell. "And frickin' expensive..."  
  
She replaced it regretfully, and after gazing at it for a moment with an expression of longing, wandered off towards the back of the shop. I massaged my throbbing temples, glancing around me cautiously...it kind of hurt to shift my focus too much.  
  
Everything there was old. An antique store, I supposed, but how many antique stores do you know of that sell 17th-century weaponry? The huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling emitted a flickering light...I shook my head in disbelief. It was fitted with candles, not bulbs. Really, the place was more a museum than a retail establishment. The table on my left held a display of battered, ancient kitchenware...probably full of lead, I thought. Who would ever want to buy that crap?  
  
Well, except maybe Adri.  
  
It was then that I caught sight of the bottle.  
  
It had been shoved away under the display table, along with a miscellaneous collection of other flasks, decanters, and rusted canteens. Made of opaque dark amber glass, it was firmly corked, and looked like it had once held some kind of alcohol. But it was the worn design etched on its belly that drew my attention. Some kind of bird, winging across a huge setting sun, above a corrugated expanse that I took to represent ocean.  
  
Something about the unusual image nagged at me, as if I'd seen it somewhere before. But I couldn't remember where.  
  
Tentatively, I leaned down and ran my hand over the cool surface. A strange shiver passed over me as I did so, a quick jolt of adrenaline. I put it down to the residue of the drug in my system. Sometimes when I rolled I'd feel aftereffects for a few days.  
  
But the thing fascinated me. It felt so...*old*, under my fingers. There was a subtle energy there, a kind of hum, as if the glass was charged with electricity. I figured I was imagining it. I didn't believe in stuff like that, vibrations and auras and all that New Age nonsense. Didn't believe in the supernatural. In magic.  
  
At least I didn't, then.  
  
Yeah, I told you you'd think I was crazy. But it only gets weirder from here on out.  
  
I was still examining the engraving when I got the sense that someone was watching me. I looked up to find that they were. Or rather, *she* was.  
  
I could not determine the woman's age; her golden-brown skin was as smooth as mine, and her fine-boned face had an timeless cast to it. Her almond-shaped eyes, near-black and emphasized by the excessive use of even darker liner, were fixed on me intently. She wore huge silver hoop earrings and a blood-red, sari-like dress; I thought she must be Hindu, or Native American, with that long, straight black hair and the intricate tattoos decorating the backs of her hands and her lower arms.  
  
I pulled my own hand away from the artifact as if it had burned me, worried that I wasn't supposed to touch it. "Uh...hi. Sorry. Are you the owner here?"  
  
She smiled, and again I felt an curious little shock run through me. That must have been a damn good pill, I reflected.  
  
"Yes, my dear. I suppose you could call me that."  
  
An odd response to a simple question, and her accent eluded classification. I said, stupidly, "Oh."  
  
She moved fluidly to the display, reached past me, and lifted the bottle out from under the table. "It was this one that interested you, no?"  
  
"Um...no? I mean, yes. Where is it from?"  
  
"This one, he is from the Islands, from Haiti. I found him there years ago." She stroked the neck in an affectionate manner. "On quite the lonely beach, was it not, my darling..."  
  
She was clearly speaking to it, not me. And why was she calling it "him", like it was a person? She was obviously nuts. I edged away.  
  
"You wish to buy, yes?"  
  
"I don't think so," I said hastily. Where the hell was Adri?  
  
"But you do," she informed me, and before I could escape, she'd thrust the bottle into my hands. It was unexpectedly heavy. I stared at it and then at her, in dismay, and I reached to place it back where it had come from, opening my mouth to say that no, I was very sorry but I had no intention in buying a dusty piece of floatsam she'd salvaged from some trash heap in Port-au-Prince. As I did so, the contents shifted; it seemed to be full of sand, or dirt. I hesitated for no good reason, and heard myself say, "How much is it?"  
  
The woman considered me, expression immediately becoming calculated. "For you, my pretty one, only twenty-five dollars."  
  
I had thirty in my purse, I knew. I couldn't believe I was actually contemplating spending most of it...on this.  
  
It was at this moment, while I was waffling on a decision I should never have considered making, that Adriana rematerialized from the shadows at the back of the shop, wearing that satisfied smile that meant she'd found something to spend her money on.  
  
"Are you feeling any better, honey? Here, check out what I found." She dangled the item in front of me for inspection. "Isn't it gorgeous?"  
  
In fact, it was. A huge moonstoon pendant, set on a tarnished silver chain, that gleamed milky-green in the fitful candlelight.  
  
"I'm going to buy it," Adri announced to the shopkeeper.  
  
The woman nodded. "A good choice," she murmured.  
  
When her transaction was finished, Adri turned to me. "What about you, Lee? Find anything you wanted?"  
  
"I don't know..." I hefted the bottle, experimentally. "What do you think?"  
  
She tilted her head. "Interesting. What's in it?"  
  
"Sand, I'm guessing. But...I don't know why, I kind of like it."  
  
"You should get it then," Adri said positively. "It is kind of cool-looking. You can use it for a bookend."  
  
I frowned. Somehow I didn't think I'd feel right using the thing for such a mundane purpose as that.  
  
"C'mon, decide, sweets. I'm starving."  
  
"Okay." I stood up. "I'll take it," I told the woman in red.  
  
She smiled at me, that same mysterious smile, and made my change from her pocket. She didn't seem to have a register anywhere.  
  
I tucked my purchase under my arm, an unexplicable sense of relief flowing through me.  
  
I was following Adri to the door when I heard her say, softly:  
  
"Take good care of him for me."  
  
***  
  
When I returned home to San Diego, I put the bottle on my bedside table, and promptly forgot about it. I was living alone in a tiny, rundown studio apartment and putting in long hours at work, trying to save up for the upcoming months in which I knew I would have no income and nothing but school loans to support me; otherwise I didn't have much time or energy to do anything but eat and sleep. Adriana left mid-August for boot camp on the East Coast. I missed her. We'd been friends for a long time, since our freshman year in high school, and we'd been roommates for several of our college years.  
  
It was around then that I started having the dreams.  
  
I would dream I was trapped in a place of absolute darkness, unable to move or speak. In the dream, I had been there for a very long time, an eternity, too long to remember clearly how many years it had been or where I had come from in the first place, and a resigned sense that I was going to be there for a very long time to come.  
  
Occasionally there would be flashes of other things. Faces, sometimes: a young man with dark hair and an earnest expression. An older man who looked much like the first, but with a weathered face and a wise, piercing glance. A beautiful girl with flashing eyes and honey-colored hair. A dark-skinned woman, too, whose dangerous smile mesmerized me as she raised two hands and said words in a language I did not understand, and who disappeared every time in a flood of white light that was always replaced by that utter darkness.  
  
Others came and went, most of them too indistinct to remember.  
  
Over and over, too, I dreamed of the ocean. Those were the best dreams, the happiest. It was as if I were dreaming of home.  
  
Once, I dreamed of a sword that ran through my chest, and out the other side. The metal was cold as death, but I felt no pain. Someone laughed cruelly as I stared down at the blade imbedded in my flesh. In that dream, I smiled, because I was already dead. That one haunted me for weeks with a vague image of seeing my own bones gleaming in moonlight.  
  
Then, one night in early September, it happened.  
  
I was having one of the violent dreams. The battle was desperate, and I burned with cold hatred for my opponent. He had betrayed me, I knew. Stolen something precious to me.  
  
At last I saw my chance. Lifted my pistol, pulled the trigger.  
  
The shot woke me, and I sat up straight.  
  
Only, it hadn't been a shot that woke me, but the crash of breaking glass. I must've flung an arm out in my sleep, and knocked my souvenir from New Orleans off the nightstand. And it must have hit the iron bedframe to shatter like that...  
  
Something moved in the corner of my vision.  
  
I froze.  
  
There was someone else with me in the room. Clearly outlined against the window, and swaying slightly as if a little drunk, was the figure of a man. A man with long, dark hair and a somewhat aquiline nose.  
  
He turned, and looked straight at me, and his deep-set eyes glittered in the faint light that seeped through the window from the streetlights outside.  
  
I lost no time in doing what any heroine worth her salt would do.  
  
In other words, I screamed as loud as I could. 


	2. Time Will Tell

**Disclaimer**: So not mine. As if. 

**A/N**: Don't worry, you fans of "Choices"...I would never abandon my baby. This is just for kicks. It writes itself much faster than the other one...probably because Leah's voice is basically mine. Like I said, don't know where I'm going with it, except wandering around San Diego with Jack on my arm. Hehehe.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Time Will Tell**

"Of all the bloody--"

In the space of an instant, the man had closed the space between himself and my bed--and me!--and clapped his hand over my mouth, effectively cutting off my terrified scream for help. I kicked out at him viciously, fear lending me strength, a hundred horrible possibilities running through my head of why he was here and what he was going to do to me.

He swore fluently, and suddenly I felt the hard, cold circle of a gun barrel at my temple.

I went still. I think I was crying a little. I was sure I was about to be raped and probably murdered, too.

"That's better," he said, voice grim. His palm was still pressed to my mouth, his grip firm but not altogether ungentle. "I have no intention of hurting you, if I can help it, love." He lowered the gun. "Now will you be a sensible lass, and try not to scream the bloody roof off, please?"

His thick accent sounded decidedly British, and back-alley British at that. I was trying to see his face in the dark, but all I could distinguish was the fact that he had a lot of hair, and a lean build. And he didn't smell very good.

I nodded under his hand; he hesitated. Then he released me, but not without a warning waggle of the gun in my direction, and stood back from me a little.

"What do you want?" I whispered.

"Information, my dear, nothing more."

"Information?" I peered at him. He sounded serious. "What are you, an escapee from a bad spy movie?"

This question gave him pause. But then he said, "Where are we?"

Escapee from a psychiatric ward, more like.

"In my house," I said, sarcastically. "Perhaps you hadn't noticed."

"Which is...where, exactly?"

This was ridiculous. Perhaps I was still dreaming. I wished fervently that I would wake up soon. The alarm would go off, and I would open my eyes to a glorious Saturday morning in which no strange, criminally insane men with dubious personal hygiene would consider invading my room. This thought comforted me greatly.

"San Diego?" I said, trying to humor him.

He lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.

"California? The United States of America?" For good measure, "Planet Earth?"

"America," he said. He seemed somewhat satisfied by that, rolling the word over on his tongue thoughtfully.

I sighed. "Yes. America. Can I turn on the light, or are you going to shoot me for it?"

He waved assent...at least I hoped it was assent...apparently distracted by the oh-so-amazing information I had imparted. I reached over and switched on the lamp. He let out a sharp exclamation, and stumbled backwards away from me, covering his eyes.

"Bloody hell, woman, that's bright!"

"It's only sixty watts," I told him, impatiently.

He squinted at me, appearing utterly mystified. I almost felt sorry for the guy. There was obviously something not quite right about him...missing a few screws, or maybe just not very smart. He was dressed very oddly, that was for sure. Looked like he was on his way to a costume party, with that red scarf, the gun, the sword hanging from his belt, and the colonial-era style of his clothing...

Actually, he looked like he'd stepped out of the pages of a history book.

All right, he looked like a fucking pirate, for Christ's sake. And I was pretty sure that the dreads were not extensions. He was slightly dirty and fairly ragged-looking, with blackened fingernails, stained clothing, and much-scuffed boots, and various odds and ends cluttering his hair.

And his goatee was braided.

He met my measuring glance, and I found I'd stopped breathing. His eyes, rimmed with what looked like grease-paint, were very deep and not quite black, the color of dark chocolate, and his gaze was extraordinarily arresting. He stared me down for a second, and flashed a predatory grin, full of...no kidding...gold teeth.

"Like what you see, lass?"

"Not particularly," I retorted. "Aren't you leaving yet?"

He shifted, swaying a little. Dear God, I thought, he must be drunk as well as crazy.

"Now, that presents a bit of a problem," he said slowly. "Seeing as I don't know how I got here in the first place."

"Shit, what do you know about yourself...anything? You know your name, by any chance?"

"Of course I do," he said, disgusted. He made a sweeping bow. "Captain Jack Sparrow of the _Black Pearl_, at your service, missy."

"Oh, God," I moaned, clutching my head. "This has got to be a dream."

Jack was now pacing the room, a bit unsteadily.

"I'm inclined to agree with you, love," he conceded. "Something's not quite right, that's plain."

He peered doubtfully at my stereo, and reached out a tentative finger toward it.

"Don't touch that!" I snapped. "You might break it."

He snatched his hand back, looking guiltier than I would expect for a full-grown, armed pirate confronted with a scantily clad, bed-head-afflicted, weaponless young woman.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Y'know," I said, reflectively, "I guess you couldn't break it though, could you? You're only a figment of my imagination, after all."

He wheeled on me. "I am not a...whatsit--"

"Figment," I said, no longer frightened of him in the slightest.

"I'll have you know, missy, that I am no figment!"

"LSD flashback?" I suggested, sweetly.

He glared. "I can assure you definitively that I am not."

"You don't even know what that is."

"Be that as it may, I think I know what I am and am not," he declared.

"Whatever. You didn't even know what state you were in until I told you!"

He rubbed his hand across his face, looking rather fatigued, and sat down at the end of the bed. "A rather confused one, I must admit, lass..."

I laughed at him outright.

"What?"

"Nothing, Jack. Nothing."

"Captain," he growled, predictably. "Captain Jack, and don't you forget it."

"Captain Jack," I agreed. This was turning out to be quite a nice change from my usual dreams. Weird, yes, but at least there were no skeletal opponents in this one...

This thought brought me up short.

Those dreams. Now this.

I shook my head, and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

"Have a care for your feet, love," Jack said at once. At my questioning look, he jerked his chin at the carpet. "You've glass all over your floor."

He was right. I drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the shards of the deceased bottle, and the quantity of sand strewn around them, completely forgetting to notice the way the pirate at the end of my bed was eying my exposed thighs--I was only wearing boxers--and low-cut tank top.

A wild, completely illogical idea was forming in my brain. Yes, I was finally making all the connections. Yes, I know it took me forever to come upon. But it was so...far-out. So insane. Nonetheless, I couldn't escape it, because I'd remembered that design.

The one that depicted a sparrow in flight.

I'd looked down in my dreams, often enough, and seen it etched into the skin of my own wrist...

I leaned down and picked carefully through the bigger pieces, until I found the one I wanted. Turned it over, ran my fingers over the engraving as I had once before. Then I scooted myself over to Jack.

He raised a suggestive brow at me, or perhaps at my cleavage, I wasn't exactly sure which.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, honey, as if. You'd have to shower multiple times before I'd so much as consider it. Let me see your right hand, please."

He offered it obligingly. With only a smidgen of hesitation, I took his wrist, and rolled his shirt sleeve up to his forearm. His skin was warm. He certainly didn't feel like a figment.

And there it was. Same bird, same setting sun, same ocean. Only the tattoo had better detail. I let out a long breath.

He regarded me quizzically. "What is it, lass?"

I wordlessly handed over the piece of glass. He frowned at it. "That's interesting."

Well, it was something, anyway.

"Ja--Captain," I said, then stopped. How was I to say this? "What's the last thing you remember, before you ended up here?"

"A woman," he answered, instantly. "A gypsy maid in a red dress." His brow furrowed. "Don't recall exactly, now that I'm reflectin' on the matter. Don't recall her being especially pleased with me, either." His smile was wry. "Can't think why not, really..."

"And then what?"

Something flashed behind his eyes, uncertainty or pain, so fleeting I thought I must have imagined it. "A bloody bright light," he said finally. "And then," waving a hand at my room, "this."

At his words, my mind presented me with the image of blinding white light, followed immediately by perfect darkness. And I knew, suddenly, whose dreams I had been dreaming, for the past month or so.

I put the thought aside. First things first.

"Come on," I commanded him, tugging at the tattooed wrist.

He followed me out to the kitchen, docile enough, although I suspected his cooperation had something to do with the fact that he got to look at my ass the entire way. I flipped on the overhead light and he startled just as he had at my room lamp, fingers clutching nervously at my arm. Of course. If he really was from the 17th century, electric lights would be completely alien, and possibly scary, to him. I contemplated trying to explain the concept to him, but decided it would probably only confuse him more at this point. Plus, I didn't really understand the concept as well as I should have. Literature major, me.

"Sit." I pointed to the table, and he did, still glancing wildly around in search of the lanterns, or gas lamps, or candles, or whatever it was that he thought was illuminating the room.

"No offense, madam, but I must say this house is the strangest I've ever seen."

I gave a short laugh. "Well, it's not much of a place, I have to admit. No offense taken, my friend."

Filling the kettle, I set it to boil on the stove. This night required hot cocoa, summer be damned. I would be far too keyed up to sleep without something warm in my stomach. If, in fact, I really was awake at present.

"Want anything, Captain?" I had a hard time not cracking up, calling him that. It sounded far too formal and distinguished for such a disreputable-looking guy.

He perked up a little. "Wouldn't happen to have any rum lying about, would you, darling?"

"Sorry, no. I'm fresh out of liquor."

As a matter of fact, I did have a big liter jug of Bacardi, up in the top of one of my cupboards, and since I'm not a big drinker, as a rule, it was more than half full. But no way was I about to tell Jack that. Alcohol is expensive, goddamnit, and I wouldn't have put it past him to finish the bottle in one sitting.

"Water, milk, or hot chocolate, those are about your choices," I told him.

He grimaced, dismissing these options with a gesture of disdain. Plopping down at the table across from him, I slouched low in my chair and regarded him thoughtfully as I waited for my water to boil.

"So, Captain Jack Sparrow," I said at last. "You asked me where you are. But did you think to ask when you are?"

He dragged his attention away from his apparently fascinated perusal of my refrigerator door...I did have a number of joke magnets up there as well as a couple sets of magnetic poetry, so I suppose he was finding it interesting reading. Most people do. I was just surprised he could read in the first place.

"When?" He looked puzzled. "Right then...when am I?"

The kettle screeched. I ignored it for the moment, leaned forward to catch his gaze and hold it.

"It's the year 2003, Jack."

I rose, turned off the stove. He was sitting very still, but judging by the closed look on his face and the mixture of comprehension and disbelief in his dark eyes, he had processed my statement admirably quickly.

I poured the packet of cocoa into a mug, added the water, stirred, and waited.

He stood up in one fluid motion, reminding me of a spring uncoiling. And suddenly, he frightened me again.

"Lying's a sin, darling," he said casually, but his fingers danced restlessly across the hilt of his cutlass. "There's a lot of folks try to put ol' Jack on, y'know, thinkin' I'm naught but a fool, and a daft one at that." A few steps, and he was looming over me. I wouldn't have expected him to move like that, so efficiently, his position calculated so that when I turned, I found I had nowhere to go.

"So," he said, voice low, dangerous. "Just what is it you're playing at, then?"


	3. Lost Time

Disclaimer: It makes me sick of heart to say it (again!) but Jack Sparrow does not belong to me. He belongs to the talented and beautiful Johnny Depp, who created a character whose eccentricity, magnetism and pure brilliance far exceeds that of any I could come up with on my own. Leah Kerr, however, is all mine, seeing as many of her characteristics originally belonged to myself and a couple of my closest friends.  
  
A/N #1: Yes, Leah is a substitute teacher for the San Diego School District. She also swears a lot, and occasionally partakes of recreational drugs. Rest assured she would never use such language in front of her students, nor would she go to work under the influence. *grins*  
  
A/N #2: The lovely Eledhwen suggested that I remove all references to the movie from this tale, and that it would stand alone. I think she may be right, and that it would definitely work just as well. I'm still trying to decide what I want to do, though, so I tried to write this chapter without any references to the film at all. What do the rest of you guys think? Should I make it slightly AU, no PotC, or leave it as is?  
  
A/N #3: On reading over this chapter...I hope Jack's still in character. Eh. Let me know if there are any spots where he slips.  
  
Notes to my dear reviewers will follow at the end of the chapter.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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III. Lost Time  
  
  
  
  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow really wasn't *that* much taller than me. Only half a foot or so. But I could no longer discount him as a figment, much as I wanted to, right then. There was nothing imaginary about how he had cornered me, thoroughly invading my personal space, standing so close that I could feel heat radiating off him and smell the stale rum on his breath. Nothing imaginary about the menace evident in every tense line of his body, the long arm blocking my escape. And there was certainly nothing imaginary about the nasty-looking sword and what I did not doubt was a fully-serviceable pistol at his belt. I cursed myself for forgetting that, even for a moment.  
  
He had said that he didn't intend to harm me. But though I may have been imagining the gleam of insanity I thought I saw in his kohl-lined eyes, I wasn't about to trust him any farther than I could drop-kick him. Which, although Adriana had insisted on teaching me several of her favorite self-defense moves over the years, probably wasn't very far at all.  
  
I felt the knobs of the stove pressing into my back, and groped behind me for the only weapon close to hand. I kept my knives in a drawer on the other side of the kitchen. But the teapot was still half-full of near-boiling water.   
  
"I'll tell you everything I know...what little there is," I said tightly, as my fingers curled around the handle of the kettle. "But first you're going to have to back off. Now."  
  
He laughed at me. I'd thought the gold teeth were a fairly silly fashion disaster, before. But combined with that mad glint in his eyes, and the utterly mirthless note in his laughter, the effect was every bit as terrifying as it was meant to be.  
  
"I hardly think you are in a position to negotiate, my dear."  
  
"We'll just have to see about that," I said. And brought the bottom of the aluminum kettle down on the knuckles of his left hand, which was resting on the countertop close beside me. At the same time, my knee shot up toward his groin.  
  
He shouted in pain and snatched his hand back, but he dodged the knee with surprising agility. Thrown off-balance, I stumbled forward and away from him, still clutching the kettle, and managed to put the table between us before he was finished swearing.  
  
"You can't say you didn't deserve that," I told him, trying to keep my voice calm, though I was shaking from fear and adrenaline.  
  
"Just my bloody luck you're a spirited lass," he snarled, and headed around the table towards me. The fact that he was sucking on his burned knuckles did reduce his dangerous appearance somewhat; or it would have, if he didn't look so pissed off.  
  
Nonetheless, I waved the kettle threateningly at him. "You're asking for a good quantity of hot water in the face, *Mister* Sparrow." I continued moving, not without a vague sense of the ridiculous...I was being chased around my own kitchen table in my pajamas, wielding only a teapot, by a bona-fide time-traveling eyeliner-fetishist pirate.  
  
Except, he'd stopped coming after me. Which would have been a good thing, if I'd been able to ignore the pistol trained on me...again.  
  
"An unusually brave lass, as well," he said. "Or would that be foolish? I find it rather difficult to tell the difference, sometimes." And the gold teeth flashed.  
  
I stood still, no longer able to classify this situation as at all ridiculous, and swallowed hard; my mouth was suddenly parched.  
  
"Let us try this once more, shall we?" He was obviously working hard to keep his temper in check.  
  
"Look, I'm unarmed and hardly dangerous." I thunked the cooling kettle down on the table. "You don't want to shoot me." I hoped that I was right, and that I could count on his curiosity to win out over his anger and possible homicidal tendencies.  
  
"I hadn't wanted to, particularly," he emphasized the past tense, "until you played that nasty little trick of yours. Now, I'm not so sure."  
  
"Oh, please. I was only defending myself," I retorted. "Your hand will heal up just fine. Really. I'd think a big, scary pirate like yourself would be able to handle the pain of a minor burn."  
  
"It's not an issue of *pain*," he said, sulkily. "It's the principle of the thing, see. Insult added to injury, and what-not..." I stifled a laugh, and he scowled. "So. Pray explain to me why I don't want to shoot you."  
  
Damn idiot, me, taunting a gun-waving maniac.  
  
But I gathered my courage, and said, simply, "You don't want to shoot me because I'm all you've got right now, Jack Sparrow."  
  
"You're all I've..." The gun lowered a fraction, and he scowled at me suspiciously. "How's that, then?"  
  
"Because, Jack." I sank down onto a chair, realizing I was extraordinarily tired; my adrenaline receptors must have become as fatigued as the rest of me, or perhaps I'd begun to grow used to having a pistol aimed in my general direction. If one can get used to something like that. But I found I hardly cared anymore; I wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep for a very long time. "Because this is my time, not yours, and trust me, you wouldn't last a day out on *my* streets, on your own, pistol or no pistol. Because I'm probably the only person who will even half-believe your tale about how you got here--" I rubbed my temples-- "even though I'm still pretty well-convinced that at least one of us is crazy. And incidentally, because without me I suspect that your chances, however slim, of finding your way back to wherever it is that you belong will be reduced to something closely resembling nil."  
  
Head cocked to one side, he considered this, letting the pistol drop a few more inches.  
  
"And how am I to know that you're telling the truth, now, love?"  
  
"First off," I said firmly, "my name's Leah Kerr. Not love, missy, darling, or any of the like. And secondly..." I sighed. "Hell, believe what you like. But I'm telling you right now, this is not a joke, practical or otherwise. I didn't ask for this," and I glared at him, "for *you*. All I want is a decent night's sleep, for once...and, while I'm wishing, to wake up from said sleep to the realization that this was all another bad dream." I looked up at him, and sighed again. "Now, will you put the gun away, please?"  
  
He glanced at it, then back at me, and replaced it in its holster. "Mayhaps you'd best begin at the beginning, then...Miss Leah Kerr." He said my name experimentally; it sounded different on his lips, transformed by his accent from a few ordinary syllables into something unusual, almost exotic. "It is *Miss* Kerr, is it not?"  
  
"Just Leah will do," I said, and waved a gracious hand at the seat across from me. "Sit down, why don't you. This is going to get a bit...complicated."  
  
"I think I'll stand, thanks."  
  
I shrugged. "Suit yourself."  
  
So he paced the not-very-long length of the kitchen, succeeding in making me more than a little nervous by his restlessness, as I told him about the strange shop in New Orleans and its equally strange proprietor, how I'd come to purchase the bottle that wore the insignia of the sparrow.  
  
"And then I started having these highly freaky dreams--"  
  
He held up a hand, cutting into my narrative. "One moment, lass. This shopkeeper bird...you mentioned she was dark, aye? Foreign-lookin'?"  
  
"I don't know about 'foreign'," I said, cautiously. "Her coloring was a lot like yours, actually. And she apparently shared your weakness for tattoos."  
  
A very odd expression came over his face. He had stopped in front of me, and stood staring down at me, his dark eyes wide and distant; I got the idea that, though I sat squarely in his line of sight, he had all but forgotten my presence.  
  
"Carmen," he murmured. "I'll be damned..."  
  
"Huh...?"  
  
He seemed to shake himself, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time. "The lady's tattoos," he said slowly. "They wouldn't have been coiled all up and round about her arms, would they? All--" He made a spiraling gesture with one finger, forming an intricate pattern in the air-- "Snaky, like?"  
  
"Yeah. Exactly like that," I said, and frowned. "Hey...how did you--?"  
  
"I'll be damned," he said again. "That's her, all right." He resumed pacing, sink to stove and back. It really got on my nerves, though I would soon learn that he was rarely ever completely still, and that it behooved one to be much more wary of him when he *did* stop moving...as the latter behavior generally indicated that Jack Sparrow was at his most predatory, and probably about to spring.  
  
"Her...who?" I ventured, feeling supremely unintelligent. I had clearly missed something important. Or he was missing something important. Say, for instance, his sanity?  
  
"*Her*," he said impatiently, and unhelpfully. "'Tis all coming back to me now, see? I know the lady." He met my bewildered gaze with a crooked half-smile. "In my time, as you so quaintly put it."  
  
"You...*know* her?" I repeated. "Knew her, I mean. In the sixteen hundreds."  
  
"Aye. The self-same Gypsy witch whose face, it so happens, is the last thing I recollect laying eyes on, before--" his gesture took in me, the room, and the entire twenty-first century-- "This."  
  
I shook my head. "Jack...that's impossible."  
  
"*Improbable*," he corrected. "And to a degree, may I point out, only slightly exceeding that of the tale which you have already related to me."  
  
"Okay," I said. "You do have a point there. But--" I struggled with my sadly limited math skills for a moment, then burst out-- "But that would make her over three hundred years old!"  
  
"As, by your account, am I." He shrugged eloquently. "Besides, Leah darling, if you'd seen and done half of what I have...in *my* time...you would not be so quick to discount the possibility...savvy?"  
  
"'There are more things in Heaven and Earth...'" I muttered, remembering a dream of metal piercing flesh, of detachedly noting how palely my own bones gleamed in moonlight.  
  
"'Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Aye, love. Not just a pretty piece of poetry, y'know."  
  
I gaped at him. "You know *Shakespeare*?"  
  
"Was that the bloke's name?" he said vaguely. "I'd forgotten. What," he added, at my inarticulate noise of disbelief, "did you assume that I was never fortunate enough to undergo a proper education? They did attempt to make an upstanding young gentleman out of me, once upon a time, Miss Kerr." He smirked, and his slurred Cockneyfied drawl returned full force, as if it had never been replaced by the clipped intonations of an upperclass Englishman. "But as ye can see, me dear, it didn't quite take."  
  
"Apparently not," I said, making up for my lack of a logical response with as much heavy sarcasm as I could muster. Then I buried my face in my hands. "Christ...none of this makes *sense*--!"  
  
"You don't believe a gentleman can become a pirate?"  
  
"Not that, Captain Jackass." I glared at him between my fingers. "Try...everything else?"  
  
"Oh. That." He paused. "I find I strongly resent your choice of epithets."  
  
"Sorry," I lied, and scrubbed at my eyelids. "So let me get this straight," I said. "You think this Carmen chick is responsible for keeping you corked up in that bottle for several centuries, just so I could exchange my hard-earned money for the privilege of--"  
  
"Hold up, there, missy," he interrupted me. "Corked up in a *bottle*?"  
  
"Sounds crazy, I know," I said, surrendering to the absurd. "But I'm afraid that's my best guess. Clumsy old me knocked the damn thing off the nightstand, the bottle went smash, and poof! You."  
  
"'Poof'?" He snorted. "What exactly d'you think I am, some sort of bloody genie?"  
  
"Do you grant wishes?" I demanded acidly.  
  
"Not that I'm aware of." He considered. "No harm in tryin', though. Wish away, darling."  
  
"Fine. Like I said before--I want to wake up."  
  
He grinned, bowed, and snapped his fingers in admirable "Thousand and One Nights" style. And looked clearly disappointed when nothing happened. I felt pretty depressed, myself. For a moment I'd hoped for some modicum of dream-logic to take hold and cause this ploy to actually work.  
  
"Damn." He examined his fingers regretfully, and snapped them again...evidently just to make sure. "Didn't think so."  
  
"Too bad," I agreed.  
  
"At any rate, I must inform you that I do not 'poof', madame. Such a thing would be highly undignified."  
  
"How about 'Kazaam'?" I suggested, unable to repress the slightly mad giggle rising in my throat...which swiftly gained strength and evolved into a full-on fit of hysterical laughter. I laid my head down on the table and succumbed to the hilarity of it all.  
  
The sound of him loudly clearing his throat pulled me back from the brink; wiping my streaming eyes, I struggled to regain control of myself. He was regarding me with an expression of extreme misgiving, as if *I*--not he--was the potentially dangerous lunatic here.  
  
"I fail to understand what it is about me that you find so terribly amusing," he said plaintively.  
  
"It's just--too much," I gasped out, trying to stifle another spasm of demented mirth.  
  
"Ah. Well. I suppose I can see how all this might be a bit of a strain," he conceded. "Must admit, I'm feelin' more than a bit strained meself, at present..." Pulling out the chair next to me, he sat--or rather, lounged there in his loose-limbed way, still watching me narrowly. "Breathe, love," he advised, after a moment.  
  
I glowered at him, and hiccuped.  
  
"This is completely surreal," I declared, when I could speak.  
  
"Aye. Without a doubt." He frowned thoughtfully, tugging at his braided beard. "But it seems to be happenin' anyway, so I suggest you stop tryin' to deny it, and face up to the facts, lass." He spread his long-fingered, be-ringed hands in an expressive gesture of resignation. "I'm here and you're here, and both of us are sane..." he paused, "more or less, that is. And it's the bloody...twenty-first century, you said it was?"  
  
"Aye...I mean, yes." Damn my predilection for picking up other people's speech patterns.  
  
"Right," he said. "So it simply remains for us to puzzle out what's to be done about it." His tone implied that this statement represented a stroke of utter genius, and at the same time managed to sound as if he had just proposed we solve a crossword, or pick a color scheme for my living room, or unravel some other equally mundane, everyday problem that possessed a logical solution.  
  
"Well, I know what *I'm* going to do about it," I announced, rising abruptly. "I'm going back to bed, and hopefully, to sleep." I picked up my abandoned mug of hot chocolate, which was now, to my disgust, no longer hot, and stalked over to the microwave. "And I suggest--" there I went again, imitating his vocabulary before I could catch myself-- "that you do the same, Captain Sparrow."  
  
He grinned at me, an expression which, along with any tendency towards preternatural stillness, I would soon read as a sign that he was almost certainly up to nothing good.  
  
"Shall I take that as an invitation, Miss Leah?"  
  
At that point, I wasn't quite wise to him yet, so the innuendo flew right over my head. "Invitation...?" I repeated, setting the microwave on high. To tell the truth, I was much more interested in the temperature of my hot chocolate than whatever nonsense he was getting at, until I glanced at him and noticed that his grin had become an unmistakable leer. "Ugh...for God's sake--"  
  
I reminded myself that in his day and age, women were certainly treated much differently and that I was definitely not dressed modestly by seventeenth-century standards. Nonetheless...  
  
"You're a pig, Jack," I told him decisively.  
  
The smirk didn't waver. "Wasn't that 'jackass,' love? At least you used the proper title with that one." Then he *winked* at me. The nerve... "C'mon, darlin'. Don't you have a bit of room for me in that great big soft bed of yours?"  
  
"The name's *Leah,*" I snapped. "In fact...I liked *Miss* Leah, if you don't mind. And your answer is...no." The microwave chimed, and I grabbed my cup. "A world of no."  
  
"Oh," he said, exaggerated disappointment weighting his voice, though he did not appear fazed in the slightest. "Where then might I lay my poor three-hundred-year-old body down, Lady Kerr? If it's not too bold a question to put forth, that is."  
  
He was mocking me, I realized. "I suppose you can sleep on my couch for tonight," I said frostily, and swept past him to my bedroom, chocolate in hand.  
  
Once there, I stopped short, surveying the disaster that was my floor. All that sand was going to be a bitch and a half to clean up. "Well, fuck me..."  
  
"Bit of a mess, innit?"  
  
I jumped. "Damn you!"  
  
Of course he'd followed me, and was leaning insolently against the doorjamb. "A shame about your pretty bottle," he observed. "Bet you're sorry to see it all smashed to pieces, eh?"  
  
"Oh, no, Captain Sparrow," I said, in saccharine tones. "I wasn't overly attached to that dusty old thing." I rounded on him. "The real tragedy is that I can't seem to figure out a way to *put you back inside it.*"  
  
He pressed a hand over his heart, contriving to appear deeply injured. "You are so very cruel, madame."  
  
"And you are full of shit," I informed him.  
  
"Such language!" He tutted at me. God, he was insufferable.  
  
"You." I pointed. "Couch. Now." I advanced on him grimly, and he must have seen the look in my eye--perfected after a year and a half of substitute teaching, during which one quickly becomes accustomed to laying down the law for unruly middle-schoolers on a pretty much constant basis--because he retreated back to the living room, where he cast a doubtful eye at my much-faded and threadbare sofa.  
  
"I hardly think I will fit there," he objected, mournfully. In fact, he was probably right about that...I could barely stretch out on the couch, myself.  
  
"Well, that's just too bad," I said, with a thorough lack of sympathy. "Beggars can't be choosers, Captain. There's a blanket under the coffee table, and the bathroom's through that door."  
  
"Bathroom," he said blankly.  
  
"Loo? Lavatory?" He still looked mystified. "Piss-pot?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"And you better not leave the seat up," I warned him. "Or you'll be fending for yourself in the big, bad, twenty-first-century world outside...'savvy'?"  
  
"Aye, love," he said. He sounded amused again.  
  
"I know you probably think that doesn't sound too awful," I added. "But believe you me, buddy, you don't want that to happen. The cops'd lock you up in a heartbeat, acting like you do."  
  
He tilted his head. "Y'know, when you put it that way, doesn't sound so different from my own time."  
  
"Well, it is." I hesitated. Why was I trying to protect him? He was, after all, a grown man, one who had threatened my life and sanity more than once this evening. But there was something about Captain Sparrow that I found undeniably fascinating, despite his cocky demeanor and his less-than-impressive personal hygiene, a kind of wild magnificence that made the idea of his imprisonment unconscionable. To think of him shut into a padded white room for the rest of his days...I shuddered.  
  
Some things should never be caged. And to take this man's freedom away could not be anything but wrong.  
  
I don't go to zoos for similar reasons, and this man, this *pirate*, reminded me of nothing so much as some sort of exotic, feral creature...a great cat perhaps, slightly scruffy but full of restless energy and the pride that comes with absolute self-confidence, as well as that predatory grace I had witnessed earlier when he'd trapped me so easily in my own kitchen.  
  
Studying him, I decided that the analogy was an apt one. Having him here was much like having a tiger in my living room. Improbable, impractical, and incredibly dangerous. But also somehow marvelously exhilarating.  
  
"Anything else, love?" he drawled, and I realized that I'd been staring openly at him for some time now.  
  
I turned away quickly. "Just don't break anything, okay?" I said over my shoulder, hand on the doorknob. "In fact, please don't touch anything that looks at all breakable."  
  
"Duly noted, m'lady."  
  
"Good night, Jack."  
  
His only response was a faint, frustrated mutter of "*Captain,*" which I chose to ignore. As I closed my door, I glimpsed him sitting cautiously down on my couch, much as if he expected it to open wide and swallow him whole. I shook my head, and sighed, and then to my dismay, caught myself smiling.  
  
I sipped my cocoa. It was luke-warm again.  
  
Damn him. He'd caused me to neglect my hot chocolate twice in one night. But I wasn't about to go back out there and reheat it. Instead, I gave up and got into bed, careful to avoid the shards of glass littering the carpet.  
  
When I fell asleep at last, I did not dream. Except for once, and it was not a dream of death and mayhem, nor of the blue, endless ocean, nor of any people that I knew but did not know, nor even of darkness without end.  
  
What was the dream, then? I'm not entirely sure. But I think I remember something about a tiger with chocolate eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
To my reviewers:  
  
Shad: Stir-crazy, yes. Or just plain crazy. Yeah, I would have jumped him too. Although I think I agree with Leah that a bath might be in order for him first. He's certainly a dirty pretty thing.  
  
Megan-earthstar: Pretty name! I'm glad I'm doing ok. Thank you!  
  
Miss Becky: I'm definitely curious to hear your input in regards to A/N #2. Ah...if only I could magick Johnny into my living room...my life would be complete.  
  
wellduh: No plot, just impulse, and a few fun scene ideas floating around in my chaotic brain.  
  
Eledhwen: I appreciate your suggestion, and I'm mulling it over. Jack and Johnny are two different people in this story, but I agree that the story wouldn't suffer from losing the PotC references. I'm definitely leaning towards cutting them...they do kind of add a sense of ridiculousness above and beyond the basic level of silliness.  
  
Ghosts-girl23: Finally, more! Glad you enjoyed.  
  
Pink Elephant Fairy: Hehe, great penname. Um...so, I'm sorry that I didn't exactly hurry... :-)  
  
Maryn: *blush* Thanks, love. It means a lot to hear that from someone whose writing skill I respect so much in turn.  
  
Maat: Yeah, I'm not sure where the drug references came from, or if that aspect of her character will be explored more...it just kind of happened that way, and then I couldn't lie and pretend Leah *hadn't* been doing illegal drugs the night before the story begins. Artifacts of my irresponsible youth showing up in my character, I suppose.  
  
Kery: I am going to keep it up...it's very fun to write, this story is like my writer's playground. And I love Jack far too much to not try very hard to preserve his integrity as a character, so if he slips, let me know.  
  
Saiyan-girl-cheetah: I'm glad you like it! And if I have indeed made this premise both fresh and believeable, I've done far more than I hoped, and that is a happy thing. Thank you for saying so.  
  
Meghan5: Cool! Another San Diegan! Just wait til I take our Jack down to the SD Pier...wanna come with? *grins* Hey, I seem to remember that you were working on a story too, girl! Where's your updates, huh?  
  
Captainsparrow'sgirl, BuxomWench, Indigo, Calendar, Moonbroken, Aelimir, Eva, CQ: Thank you all so very much!  
  
If I missed anyone, my sincere apologies, and to any of you who read but didn't review, thank you for reading! 


	4. Realtime

Disclaimer: Not mine, yada yada yada.  
  
A/N #1: It's been forever and a day, I know, and all I have to offer up to all you marvelous readers is this lamentably short chapter. The next one will be longer, I promise, and far more eventful. But the chapter just had to end on a cliffhanger. I couldn't help myself. (You've been warned.)  
  
A/N #2: Right now I have no intent of taking this story in a romantic direction...in case anyone was wondering. If the story somehow wanders that way, I'll try to give y'all fair warning, but it's unlikely.  
  
Reviewer notes will be found at the end, as usual.  
  
  
  
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Chapter 4: Realtime  
  
  
  
I woke suddenly to morning sunlight streaming through my blinds. I thought I'd heard something from the other room, a sound, perhaps a half-strangled cry, that had pulled me from sleep.  
  
I sat up and listened. Nothing. Someone must have shouted outside; I sighed. My neighbors never seemed to get the concept that it was rude to make noise before ten a. m. on a Saturday.  
  
Or perhaps I'd only dreamed it. Disordered memories floated in my still only partially-conscious mind. I *had* had some very odd dreams, it seemed. Much more so than usual, in fact. I couldn't shake the clear image of a man's face, grinning at me: deeply tanned, fine-boned, watching me intently with gleaming dark eyes made cat-like and mysterious by heavy black liner.  
  
I rubbed my eyes. I thought I'd gone to bed around eleven, but I felt as groggy as if I'd stayed up all night.  
  
I was about to lie back down and pull the covers over my head when I heard it again.  
  
It was definitely coming from the direction of my living room, and it was definitely a voice. A male voice. The words were indistinct, but troubled somehow with pain or grief; they were abruptly cut off by the thumping vibration of something heavy striking the floor.  
  
I jumped out of bed, alarmed...narrowly missing the small pile of sand and glass beside the nightstand, had I been paying attention...and flung open my bedroom door.  
  
My coffee table had been overturned, scattering books, magazines, and my collection of tealight candleholders; that had obviously been the crash I'd heard. And Jack Sparrow was sitting bolt upright on my couch, clutching the hilt of his sword, those dark eyes darting from side to side until they met mine, wide and wild.  
  
We stared at each other, dismayed, as I realized with a sinking feeling that the unbelievable events of last night had actually happened.  
  
"Bloody hell," he muttered, finally, just as I said, "You're still here."  
  
"It appears so." He passed a hand over his face; he looked a little rumpled, his kohl smudged, as if he too had just woken up. "I was quite certain that I'd dreamed you, lass."  
  
"I was hoping the same, of you." I shook my head, resigned, and went to right the table; he made no move to help me, just watched me warily. "You woke me up," I accused him. "What were you doing in here, anyway, having it out with my furniture?"  
  
He had the grace to appear a bit sheepish, but the expression was shadowed by some deeper emotion. "My apologies, miss," he said, and then, more softly: "I've fought a good many battles in my time, young Leah, and won or lost such memories are not the sort that bring a man much in the way of peaceful sleep."  
  
I paused in the act of straightening a stack of 'Rolling Stone' magazines. It was strange to think of him as one who suffered from nightmares. "Even if that man is a pirate?" I inquired lightly; but even as I spoke, the violent, disjointed images of my own half-remembered visions rose in my mind. A chill ran down my spine, despite the sunlit warmth of the room.  
  
His eyes flickered, and I knew he'd caught my involuntary shiver, though he did not comment on it. "I may be a scoundrel an' a thief, m'lady, even a really bad egg, but I'm not so different from any other man, never mind what the legends say. Well," he amended, "given, I'm quicker on my feet, a far sharper shot, and a damn sight more clever than your average bloke, not to mention better-looking...but that's beside the point." He fixed me with that intense, kohl-deepened gaze. "We pirates still grieve, and bleed, and die--" he frowned, "most of us, anyway...and yes, lass, we have our bad nights, same as everyone else."  
  
"Well, if yours are anything like mine have been lately," I said, "then I'll forgive you the coffee table, this once. *But*," I added sternly, "only because you didn't break it." Still, I smiled at him; I couldn't help my compassion, for his words had echoed with a weight of care that belied his apparent physical age. In that moment I could really believe that he was over three hundred years old, though by my understanding of the circumstances he had not truly lived through the intervening centuries.  
  
"Thank you," he said gravely. "But I should hope that your bad nights are nothing like mine, my dear." With that, he rose in one smooth, quick motion, turning away and crossing to the south-facing window, where he peered out curiously.  
  
"You have no idea," I muttered under my breath, in his general direction.  
  
He made no sign that he'd heard me. "Lovely day outside, innit?" He glanced back at me quizzically. "Doesn't look near as strange as you've made it out to be, down there."  
  
I finished reordering my table and joined him at the window. "That's because you're looking down at the trees in the courtyard, not at the street," I told him. "Ever heard of a horseless carriage, Jack?"  
  
"It's 'Captain', love," he said, though the rebuke seemed to emerge more from force of habit than from any real offense. "*Horseless* carriages, eh...do they run 'em on sails, or steam, these days?"  
  
"Uh...neither." Oh, Christ. More engineering to explain. "Internal combustion, actually. Powered by gasoline."  
  
"Sounds dangerous," he said mildly, but at his look of polite incomprehension I realized belatedly that my last two statements probably meant next to nothing to him. Did they even use anything like gasoline in the seventeenth century? I doubted it. Whale oil was possibly the closest approximation, and I suspected that trying to draw an analogy between the two would represent a significant conceptual stretch.  
  
I shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. *If* you behave, I *might* let you ride in my very own private carriage sometime. Then you could see for yourself."  
  
"M'lady Kerr, you are far too kind." He was mocking me again, amusement rumbling behind his solemn protest.  
  
"Don't think I don't know it." I eyed him critically. "Although we're certainly going to have to clean you up quite a bit before I can take you out in public, Captain. And find you some different clothes, as well."  
  
"What d'you mean? There's nothing wrong with me clothes!" He sounded genuinely affronted this time.  
  
I snorted. "Yeah. Right. Even if they *were* even halfway clean--" I wrinkled my nose-- "which, by the way, they're clearly not, you can't wander around in the twenty-first century dressed like that. You'd be way too...noticeable."  
  
"I *like* being noticed," he said, petulant. "That's what I go for, y'know? This," and he posed shamelessly, chest thrown back, head high, "this, my dear Leah, is the patented Jack Sparrow Look. I spent years developing it to perfection, and *decades* establishing its notoriety, and I'm not about to compromise me image now on your say-so. Savvy?"  
  
"Your *image*?" I rolled my eyes. "Give me a break. Listen, I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, Jack, but your pirate cred doesn't mean anything here. It's not going to bring you respect, or fear, or whatever it is that you're trying to cultivate. You'll be laughed at first, and then arrested, or committed. And I think you'll find it's a whole lot harder to escape from prison now than it was in your day."  
  
"Leah, darling," he said patiently; his tone implied that I was very young and rather slow for my age. "I have made a living of evading a wide variety of hostile military and civil authorities since I was a lad in short pants, and I've long outgrown any native horror of ridicule I once possessed. I need you for a guide, lass, not for a nursemaid."  
  
I folded my arms. "Well, it's your funeral, I suppose." There was no way he was any more stubborn than me, I decided. "But I'm not guiding you anywhere, buddy, unless you look presentable. And dragging me along at gunpoint," I added quickly, as his face acquired a distinctly calculating mien, "would be a very bad idea. That'd get you noticed, quick enough...and it'd also get you in even more trouble."  
  
He made a sound of extreme frustration, something very much like a growl, and threw his hands in the air; turning his back on me, he paced the length of the room, once again reminding me of a trapped tiger. Near the door, he halted, glaring at me.  
  
"You really are a most maddening female," he informed me.  
  
"Nothing I haven't heard before," I said dryly. "Now, I'm going to go get dressed, myself. Why don't you just chill here and think about what I've said, and I'll be right out. 'Kay?"  
  
"Right." He'd ceased his restless movement, and was lounging against the wall, expression dark and sullen; only his eyes shifted to follow me as I headed toward my bedroom.  
  
"And don't go anywhere."  
  
"Yes, your Majesty."  
  
I raised a suspicious eyebrow.  
  
"Yeah, I swear it, on pain of death, and so on and so forth. Now do get on with it, lass, make yeself decent by all means. It's quite distracting havin' to argue with you while you're wearin' naught but your skivvies."  
  
He let his gaze linger lazily over my body with a slow half-smile, and I suddenly felt very naked.  
  
"You--"  
  
"Yes?" He blinked at me innocently.  
  
"Nothing," I muttered, and retreated in all haste, slamming the door behind me.  
  
I was in the process of pulling on my jeans when I heard my front door open and close.  
  
"Oh, crap..." I stood still for a second, listening; heard nothing but absolute silence. "Oh, crap."  
  
I hadn't yet gotten around to putting a shirt on, yet; grabbing for the first thing that came to hand, I wrapped my long sweater-coat around myself before I rushed out into the living room.  
  
"Oh, crap," I said again, though I had already been pretty sure what I was going to find.  
  
Jack Sparrow was gone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
  
  
I know, I know...I'm evil. But you love me for it.  
  
*cricket*  
  
...Anybody? No? Uh...okay then! On with the thank-yous!  
  
  
  
Miss Becky: Yeah, I think I won't refer to the movie again...unless I absolutely have to. Maybe if I'm feeling ambitious I'll rewrite chapter two to accommodate the slight AU...but I liked making Johnny references. *grins* Leah IS a smartass...even more than I am, I find!  
  
XReject: I laughed at the genie part myself. Glad you enjoyed!  
  
Eledhwen: Yes, no fangirls. I don't want any of those, even in my own story for purposes of ridicule.  
  
AleniaOceanstar: God forbid Leah becomes a Mary Sue! I would have to kill her and perhaps myself as well. If you catch her showing any signs of Sue-possession, please let me know. Like I said, this is not a romance-oriented story, anyway, so I think I'm safe...surely not ALL female OC's are Sues?  
  
Mythical Assassin: Thanks! It's an ongoing struggle.  
  
Nightfox: Finally, eh? I'm loving your story, btw!  
  
Precarious*Personata: Sorry...I don't think I could recreate the patterns of capitals/lowercase in your penname if I tried. But thank you so much! *blushes* Leah says thank you too.  
  
XFVixen: I can't deny a little tiny bit of Kate and Leopold influence here. I actually adored that movie...Hugh Jackman *sigh* he is a hottie, I agree.  
  
ToledaSarrah: Can't promise any real "action"...but there will certainly be bathtime fun on the way.  
  
Aelimir: Uh...sorry. *winces* I know that wasn't anything that could be called quick.   
  
BubblyFizz: Thank you so much Sara! And thanks for checking out "Choices" too. That one WILL be updated...I promise... Hehe. I can be a bit snarky myself at times, but not nearly as much as Leah.  
  
LanFear1: Not to give away too much of the (not-planned-whatsoever) plot, but no, I don't anticipated Leah returning to Jack's time.  
  
CQ: Jack wanders around outside in the very next chapter...should be interesting.  
  
Maryn: Hey! No breakdowns for you! I totally disagree with you...I love your style.  
  
jigglykat: Duly noted. Glad you're laughing!  
  
Marahootei, saiyan-girl-cheetah: Thank you!  
  
Love you all! *muah* 


	5. In the Nick of Time

A/N: It's been a long time, but this story seems to have some surprisingly devoted fans, and since I had much of the chapter finished I decided to come back to it. It does write itself much faster than Choices, but as it is just a bit of fun on the side, so to speak, I can't guarantee regular updates. Although the prospect of getting Jack drunk and forcing him to bathe is quite a tempting one. We'll see, eh?

This one's for Marie, Mythical Assassin, lemonhobbit, geekmama, Chimera, Wishful Menace, and everyone else who contacted me or reviewed chastising me for not updating! Please accept my sincere apologies.

For those of you awaiting chapter 25 of Choices, it is more than half-finished and should be turning up soon. Among my New Year's resolutions is a solemn and stern promise to myself to complete the epic.

* * *

**Chapter 5: In the Nick of Time**

"Crap, crap, crap."

Leaning over the wrought-iron railing of the landing outside my second-floor apartment, I squinted against the bright sunlight as I searched the courtyard below for any sign of my errant pirate.

I shook my head at myself. _My_ pirate? Since when was Jack Sparrow _my_ responsibility?

A remembered voice echoed softly in my head.

--_Take good care of him for me._

I swore again, and took the steps two at a time down to the courtyard, careful to keep my sweater wrapped tightly around my chest. At this rate, I was going to have enough questioning looks from the neighbors for harboring a certifiable lunatic without showing off my bra to the whole damn complex.

"Jack!" I called, as quietly as I could. I found I really didn't feel like having an audience at this hour of the morning. "Damn it, Jack. Where did you go?"

There was no answer; I hadn't much hoped for one. I looked around wildly, searching for clues, and tried to think like a slightly insane 17th-century buccaneer. What the hell, it seemed I was already at least half-crazy, anyway, so I figured it wasn't too much of a stretch.

Then I noticed that the gate to the street stood half-open. In flagrant disregard for community rules, of course.

"Great..."

I hurried across the grass, through the open gate, and onto the sidewalk.

The street was empty to my right. I looked left, and spotted a great-coated figure with a tricorne hat sashaying carelessly towards the major intersection some few hundred yards away.

As I watched, he brushed past a well-dressed middle-aged lady who had just gotten out of her car; she stumbled backwards, her hands flying up, and Captain Jack reached out and relieved her lax fingers of a large, embroidered purse. He gave her a quick bow, and I could have sworn I heard him say, "Thanks very much."

She gawked at him open-mouthed, probably too shocked by his appearance and pure audacity to object.

I took off running a split second before Jack did.

The woman closed her mouth, then opened it again to yell, "Help! THIEF!" But I flew by her without a glance, eyes fixed on my quarry.

At the intersection, Jack swayed indecisively, regained his balance, and veered to his right, about to cross the street...just as the lights changed, and the SDTC number 41 bus bore down on him with the vibrating roar of a poorly maintained natural-gas-powered engine.

"Jack! _STOP_--!"

My breathless shout must have reached his ears, because his head jerked round towards me, and he hesitated.

I was nearly upon him when the bus driver leaned on his horn; Jack stumbled backwards, and the belching monster screamed past a few inches from his nose. I felt the rush of heated air wash over us in its wake as I grabbed Jack's arm and yanked him to the safety of the curb.

He looked blankly after the departing bus. "Ye gods, what was that thing?"

"That," I said grimly, "was public transit."

"Public what?"

"Otherwise known as yet another very good reason for you to take my advice, and not go wandering off on your own." I began to drag him back down the sidewalk. "Come on, Captain. You've had your fun."

He dug in his heels like a small child. "Bloody hell. Unhand me, woman."

I let go of him and stopped short, surprising him. "For God's sake, Jack, what is WRONG with you? Any five-year-old has more common sense! At least they know enough to look both ways before running into oncoming traffic!" I gave him a violent little shove away from the intersection for good measure. "You could have been killed!"

"It's quite kind of you to take such a lively interest in my well-being, Madame, but I assure you there is no cause for concern. After all, I am Captain Jack Spar--"

Before he could finish his predictably grandiose declaration of invincibility, our little glaring match was interrupted by the puffing arrival of the lady whose brightly-colored and rather ugly bag was still clutched in Captain Jack Sparrow's hot little hand.

"Excuse me! Do you know this man, Miss?"

My pirate charge and I turned as one to stare at her; she was red-faced and shaking with what was either towering rage or an imminent grand mal seizure.

"He _stole_ my PURSE," continued the lady, demonstrating a remarkable failure to understand effective versus gratuitous emphasis.

"Uh," I started...and then sharply added "Jack--!" as his free hand shot toward his pistol, which was thankfully hidden at present under his voluminous coat. I quickly decided that this was the time to call into play my very limited dramatic talent. "You'll have to forgive my cousin Jack, ma'am...he's a little--" I tapped my forehead significantly-- "_challenged_, you know? Jack, dear, give the nice lady her bag back now, ok?" I trained my most saccharine smile on him. "There's cookies and apple juice back at the house for you, if you're a good boy. We can play Pirates later."

His eyes widened at my tone, his expression quickly changing from confused to comprehending, followed immediately by full-fledged righteous indignation.

Facing him, I let the smile slip. "_Do it_," I hissed at him, and wheeled back again to beam earnestly at the woman. "He got out before I could give him his medication this morning...didn't you, dear?" I patted Jack's arm, and flashed him another Look.

"If you say so," the lady said; she glanced from me to Jack suspiciously. "Well, I guess I won't call the police, if he gives it back with nothing missing, that is."

Jack had gone very still; I could practically feel the fury coming off him in waves, and I realized just how dangerous this little game, and, once again, this entire situation, could become for me. At the same time, I found I was enjoying myself a great deal more than I had in some time. Besides, it seemed that, despite his anger, my schoolmarm glare must have served its purpose; the impressively ugly bag was extended grudgingly towards its rightful owner, who snatched it back instantly.

"Good boy," I cooed. "Now, what do we say, Jack honey?"

The look I received in return was one of undisguised hatred.

"He's sorry," I announced hastily. "Thank you so much for understanding, ma'am." I sighed. "It's not always easy, taking care of him, you know?"

The woman still appeared doubtful, but she gave me a false, uncomfortable smile and backed off rapidly, hugging her precious handbag. I heaved a sigh of relief, and hoped desperately that she wouldn't rethink the idea of calling the cops. I had problem enough on my hands in the person of the pirate beside me.

By way of confirming my worries, said pirate--whom I had apparently astonished into silence with my cavalier treatment of his dignity (so there was a way to get him to be quiet, after all! I'd have to remember that one)--opened his mouth as if to speak, shut it again with a snap, half-drew his pistol, seemed to think better of it, and finally, after favoring me with one last terrible scowl, spun on his booted heel and flounced away, muttering blackly to himself. I caught a few snatches, enough to make me suspect a stream of virulent adjectives directed at yours truly.

My first instinct was to let him go this time. He clearly didn't want my help, and I certainly didn't owe it to him. Sure, he'd be committed quickly enough, if he was lucky, and jailed if he wasn't quite that lucky...assuming that he didn't get hit by a semi or something first, that is. And I'd tried to warn him, hadn't I? I'd even given him a place to sleep, putting myself at risk of becoming the potential victim of any number of crimes, capital and otherwise, at his hands. Never mind that he actually hadn't attempted anything of the sort, besides a few threats and a cheerful leer or two. In fact, I'd probably hurt him more than he had me; I'd noticed the nasty-looking blister on the back of his hand earlier, from where I'd branded him with my hot tea-kettle.

I took a few steps towards the gate, then glanced back; it was difficult to take one's eyes off him, perhaps because he somehow managed to infuse his drunken swagger with a sort of haphazard, unconscious grace that was inexplicably mesmerizing. He cut a preposterous figure against the mundane backdrop of the city street, a man out of place and out of time, ridiculous, clownlike...yet with the lonely pathos of the absurd.

--_Take good care of him for me_.

"Shut up," I said loudly. "Just...shut up."

And once again, half-against my will and the dictate of all logic, I found myself hurrying to catch up with him. He'd halted on the corner; perhaps he had learned an appropriate wariness of twenty-first-century traffic after all.

"Jack?" I said his name very softly; I used to take the same tone at the stables I worked at as a teenager, with the two-year-old foals who were most easily spooked.

He stiffened and turned, glittering teeth bared, at bay; the long fingers curled and uncurled, half-raised, as a manful struggle for self-control passed plainly over his dark features. After a moment, the bearded jaw acquired a resolutely tight set; he seemed to have decided against strangling me just then. Nonetheless, his next words displayed remarkably careful enunciation, just a little too level.

"What is it this time, then, Miss Kerr?"

"Where, exactly, are you planning on going?"

"Well, that would be business of me own, now wouldn't it."

"You don't have the faintest idea...do you."

An exaggerated sigh. "If you must know, madam, I intend to make me way to the ocean, steal meself a nice bit of a boat, and sail meself away from this ridiculous twenty-first century." With that, he started off across the street, heading east down Genesee; I was impressed to note that he looked both ways this time.

"Uh, Jack?"

"_What_?"

I pointed. "The ocean's that way."

He froze; wavered; glanced up into the morning sunlight and back at me with a frown; and returned gingerly to the curb.

"That way, you say?"

"Yes, that way."

Reaching into a pouch at his belt, he pulled out a rusty compass and peered at it; shook it violently, then peered at it again, his puzzled expression deepening.

"You're on the West Coast, Captain Sparrow. It's the Pacific Ocean you're looking for."

He shut the compass-case with a snap. "Never did point north, anyway," he muttered as if to himself. "Very well, missy. Thank you very kindly an' all that. I'll just be shovin' off for the...Pacific, then."

"Jack, wait." The words escaped my lips before I stopped to think. "Maybe...maybe I can help you."

The pirate assumed an air of exaggerated patience. I cleared my throat, not at all sure where I was going with this.

"If you'll just come back to the apartment with me," I paused, knowing that I had had another stipulation in mind. Ah, yes. "--and get yourself respectably cleaned up and dressed in decent clothes--" I noticed how he bridled at this, but rushed on, "I will drive you down to the harbor myself." I wondered, uncomfortably, if this would constitute aiding and abetting if the crazy pirate stole a private yacht or something under my watch. But at the very least, I was buying myself a little time with this scheme in which I could try to think of some better alternative. "...Jack? What do you say?"

He considered me and my wild proposition, head tilted slightly to one side, lips pursed. "This cleaning up you speak of," he said finally. "That wouldn't entail...bathing, would it?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "I'm afraid it would. Most definitely."

"That's quite all right then," he said hastily. "I'll do without your help, m'dear. Much obliged for the offer. Very...civilized of you. Ta," and with a panicky look he sketched a quick bow, and was off.

It was time to play my trump card.

"I have rum," I said loudly.

He spun round immediately, dark-chocolate eyes snapping to attention before they narrowed suspiciously. "That's not what you told me last night," he said, his tone accusatory.

"So I lied," I admitted, unapologetic.

He lifted an startled eyebrow. Then he grinned suddenly. "Smart girl," he said. "You might make a decent pirate yourself, you know." The offer of liquor seemed to have done the trick; he was suddenly in a much more agreeable mood.

"Thank you," I said dryly. "Come on, Captain. Let's go."

He followed me towards the gate. "If you don't mind me asking, Miss," he said after a moment, "why is it that you are so determined to assist me?"

"Because," I started to say, and then stopped, considerably annoyed that he had asked that particular question. "Because I don't want to hear about whatever mess you get yourself into on the evening news," I said shortly. "I'd feel...responsible, you know? If anything happened to you." If I were to tell the whole truth, I felt a little sorry for him. But it occurred to me that voicing that last bit might not advance my case.

"Ah." He thought about this. "Are you sure it's not because I'm so devilishly handsome?"

I gritted my teeth, already beginning to regret my ill-considered charity. "Completely positive," I said severely,herding him through the gate and toward the stairs, and ignoring his wounded look, belied as it was by the flash of mischief in his eyes.

Those chocolate eyes, I told myself equally severely, had nothing to do with it.


	6. Bath Time

**A/N:** Well, here we are again. Because I have been trying very hard to make progress on a different project, I find progress is to be had everywhere but that particular project. Thus I present you some more pure silliness, with just a hint of darkness, in the form of an update to the long-languishing "Out of Time." Now, in returning to this story, it occurred to me that the wonderful and talented Eledhwen had, some time ago, given me a very good suggestion: i.e. to get rid of the movie references and have the fic stand on its own. Said references really only exist in chapter 2, but in this chapter it's assumed that our heroine does not associate Jack with a fictional character. Meanwhile, I'll be going back to remove the earlier references promptly...all hail the wonderful new Export/Quickedit function.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6: Bath Time**

"You promised there'd be rum," said my pirate, plaintively.

"And there will be," I assured him, adding a liberal quantity of vanilla-scented bubble-bath to the steaming tub. "As soon as you're in this tub and the first layer of grime is soaking nicely off you, you'll get all the alcohol you want." I turned to smile sweetly at him. "'Savvy?'"

"You_ are_ a harsh mistress, an' no mistake," he sighed. "Positively ruthless. Very well, m'lady." He peered dubiously at the streaming faucet. "Must say, that's a remarkable amount of hot water to be had on short notice. Quite disturbing, in fact...Where does it come from?"

"Pipes," I said succinctly. "Stop stalling, and strip."

His grin was slow, dazzling, and decidedly wicked. "Will you be watchin' me, then?"

"I will not," I said, with all the dignity I could muster. "And _you_ will kindly behave yourself, buddy." My motion as I switched off the water was perhaps more forceful than was entirely necessary. "Or..."

"Or what?" he demanded, and I detected a flash of amusement in his dark eyes. "Or you'll scold me to death, is that it?" I opened my mouth to attempt just that, but he overrode me. "I know, I know, no rum if I don't conduct meself like a gentleman."

"Got it in one," said I. "I'm so glad we understand each other."

He shook his head, looking mournful. "You're no fun at all, Miss Kerr."

"That's right," I said severely. "I'm not. And don't you forget it."

"Still," he mused, "you may be the oddest little bird I've known in three centuries. Are you not even the slightest bit intimidated by the fact that I have all the weaponry, and you are armed only with hot water and tea-kettles?"

I was about to tell him that my sixth-graders were scarier than he was; then I remembered how swiftly and skillfully he had cornered me the night before. "One bottle of rum, coming right up," I said instead, as I shut the door.

In the kitchen, I stood on a chair to take down the Bacardi from the topmost cupboard; sometimes I really hate being short. The truth was, though, that I kept what alcohol I had out of my own reach for two reasons: one, because I didn't anticipate having to take it down except on rare occasions, and two, because it would prevent me from being tempted to take it down on a regular basis.

On second thought, it was a very _large _bottle. A short search came up with a purple plastic sixteen-ounce tumbler, which I half-filled with rum and a couple of ice cubes. I wasn't about to give him a real glass. I didn't entirely trust Captain Sparrow not to break things, especially if he turned out to be an energetic drunk. After a moment's contemplation, I added a bit of lemon juice for flavor; I had a vague idea that sailors used to drink their liquor with a touch of citrus, something about the virtues of vitamin C.

Peace-offering in hand, I returned to the bathroom door, where I waited until I heard splashes and a muffled curse; satisfied that my guest was safely ensonced in his bath, I knocked lightly. "Captain Sparrow?"

"Aye, lass, come in." He sounded resigned. "There're more'n enough blasted bubbles; I assure you that your delicate sensitivities will not be offended."

"That was the intent," I said smugly. Still, I poked my head around the door with some caution, and was relieved to see that he had spoken truthfully; only his head was visible among the mounds of white foam. Biting my lip to keep from laughing at the incongruity of this vision and the mulish expression on my victim's face, I held out the tumbler. "Your drink, as promised."

"Thank the powers!" He snatched it from me with one sudsy hand, downing half of the contents in one gulp. Then he grimaced, viewing it, and me, suspiciously. "What _is_ this stuff? Not real rum, surely?"

"Of course it is!" I said, more than a little offended. "And it's not cheap, either, so don't give me that look."

"Funny sort of rum, then," he grumbled. "No texture at all, an' no bloody flavor. And it's _clear_." He considered it. "Still, got a nice bite to it, so it's better than nothing, I suppose..."

"I certainly hope so, because it's the only kind I have." I pulled the shower curtain closed with a snap. Now that he couldn't see me, I gathered up his discarded clothing, wrinkling my nose at their odor of unwashed pirate. The garments were so stiff with ground-in dirt, tar and salt they could almost have stood up of their own accord. "There's a bar of soap on the shelf," I informed him loudly, by way of cover. "I suggest you use it."

"God's teeth, woman! Ain't a whole bloody tubful enough?"

"_Isn't_ enough," I corrected automatically, the English teacher in me asserting herself. "And no, it's not."

"Leah, darlin', you'll be the death o' me." But the rum was having its desired effect, and far more quickly than I had expected; perhaps modern distillation produced a stronger proof, or perhaps his two hundred years trapped in a bottle had adversely affected his tolerance, because his words were becoming mildly but noticeably slurred. "Don' think I've seen this much soap in me entire _life_."

"I don't doubt it," I retorted, and left him to it.

I wanted to burn the clothes; but the incinerator was on the other side of the complex, and I didn't want to leave Jack Sparrow alone in the apartment even for a moment. Barring the mischief he might get up to, he could easily hurt himself. So I merely consigned shirt, breeches, and coat to the washer--I was lucky enough to have my own laundry room in my place, although it was more like a laundry _nook_--added two capfuls of laundry detergent, turned the settings to "hot" and "heavily soiled", and hoped the things would fall to pieces by the end of the cycle. The hat...I examined it distastefully, unsure of what to do with it. He couldn't wear it out in public here, that was for damn sure, but he seemed really attached to the thing, and I had an inkling that he might not be too thrilled if I threw it away or destroyed it in the washer. Still, it seemed to be made of soft leather, so perhaps it would stand up to a vigorous cleaning. I left it atop the dryer for now.

"Oh, good," he said, upon my return to the bathroom. His arm snaked around the curtain, holding out the purple cup. "Bloody empty."

"That was quick," I said. "How's the soap coming?"

A noise of industrious scrubbing. "No need to be stingy, love. Come, let's have us another."

Well, such was our agreement, I supposed. I took the cup, and was about to close the door again when he said, "An' have one yourself, Missy. Could only do you good, y'know. You seem a bit uptight this mornin'."

"No thanks," I said. "It's too early for me." And I added to myself on a stern undertone: "And I don't drink." _At least, not anymore..._

I didn't think Captain Sparrow had heard that last part, until I came back with the refilled drink and he asked me, quite seriously, "So you're a teetotaler, are you--? No, let me guess," he said, "you think rum is a vile drink that turns even the most respectable of young ladies into perfect Jezebels. Am I right?"

What an odd way of speaking he had sometimes. "In a way, yes," I said shortly, handing in the cup.

"Should try it sometime," he said, accepting his bribe with great appreciation. "You might like it."

I sighed. This was not a conversation I wanted to have just now. "I have tried it, Jack. And liked it. Liked it _too_ much, in fact." Had he known it, he was at least partially, if indirectly, responsible for my getting clean. After the strange events in New Orleans, and my increasingly troublesome dreams, it had occurred to me that perhaps I should stop screwing with my brain cells.

That, and I'd almost lost my job after partying too hard on too many weeknights and dragging myself in to work still smelling of alcohol.

"Ah! So that's the way of it," Jack said cheerfully. "Truth be told, there's some who've said the same about me. I don't see the problem, meself."

"You wouldn't," I said ruefully. "You're a pirate. Pirates are _supposed_ to be drunken scoundrels. Isn't it in the job description, or something? 'Prerequisites: Must be bloodthirsty, amoral, and obsessed with treasure. General lawlessness preferred. Alcoholism encouraged. Please apply within.'"

"You've a funny way of putting things," he said, unconsciously echoing my own thoughts of a minute ago. "I don' know about the 'bloodthirsty' bit, now. Not all of us kill for pleasure, though I've known a good number that did."

"Really." I picked up his sword and pistol gingerly, trying to be as silent about it as possible. "Next you'll be telling me there's such a thing as a noble pirate, and you're one of them."

"Hah! Not _noble_. That's a lot of sodding nonsense." He chuckled. "But there's some who've called me a good man, love, pirate or no."

"You've killed, though." I kept my tone neutral, and the implements of death at arms length. I don't really like firearms. Adri took me to a shooting range once; she did her level best to teach me how to hit a target, but I jumped so violently every time my gun went off that she declared, between snorts of laughter, that I was a danger to myself and others. I had heartily agreed. "You must have."

"Aye," Jack said. "But only when it was necessary, y'see. _Not_ because I liked it."

For some reason, maybe because of the way he said it--heavily, almost as if he were admitting a weakness--I believed him. But I still took the weapons with me. He had been right when he pointed out that I was practically defenseless and he, armed to the teeth, and I intended to even the odds--

"By the way, Miss Kerr?" drawled Jack's voice from the bathroom. "I'll thank you to have a care with my effects."

_Shit._ I should have known; he had ears like a bat. "I didn't want them to rust, is all," I called back to him. "Steam will do that, you know."

A moment passed; I held my breath. "Damn thoughtful of you," came the reply, and I relaxed, until he added, "Of course, they've borne much worse, y'know. Very humid place, the Caribbean, and even the best-made ship can be dreadfully damp." He paused; I thought he might be laughing at me. "Just put 'em with my hat, there's a good girl."

I did so, hurriedly. So much for my clever plans...As I stood in the laundry nook, contemplating my next move, the faint sound of singing reached my ears.

"We're devils and black sheep and really bad eggs--"

My curiosity getting the better of me, I emerged cautiously from the nook and listened, bemused.

"Drink up me hearties, yo ho!"

"I believe, Captain Sparrow," I said to the empty kitchen, "that you have had more than enough rum for one morning."

When I had tucked the Bacardi away in the back of its cupboard and returned my improvised step-stool to its place at the table, I went into my bedroom, where I opened my bottom bureau drawer, rummaging through its contents until I found what I wanted: a pair of men's jeans. Luckily, my last ex-boyfriend, while being next to useless in practically every other regard, had the foresight to leave a change of clothes at my place, and had yet to return in the wake of our breakup to retrieve his belongings. This had annoyed the crap out of me, until just now.

I held up the jeans, assessing them. Jason was a big guy, so Captain Sparrow would definitely need his belt. But they were the right length, at least, and slim build or no, Jack certainly wouldn't fit into any of my pants. I added an old Tool t-shirt that had always been too large for me and carried the ensemble out to the bathroom.

"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot--Mistress Leah! This bathing business isn't nearly so horrible as I'd imagined. Though this water is quite fearfully scented...I shall smell like a bleedin' fop for days, I should think."

"One can only hope," I said tartly. "Vanilla's a perfectly acceptable masculine scent, you know." Then I smiled in spite of myself. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, Captain. When you're done, there's a towel on the rack for you. Take your time."

With that, I retired to the living room and waited. Not for long. Presently a dreadlocked and disheveled head appeared around the door, frowning like a thundercloud.

"What," it demanded ominously, "have you done with me britches, woman?"

I turned a page of my magazine, attempting nonchalance. "They're in the wash," I said calmly.

"An' my coat?"

"That too. It needed it, believe me. Badly."

"Oh, Lord," he moaned. "Not good...lassie, you'll ruin it! Don't you know it takes at least a month's wear before clothing is properly broken in an' comfortable?"

"Nonetheless," I said, and turned another page. "You'll find clean things on the counter by the sink."

He glowered, but withdrew. After a few minutes, he reappeared, arms folded, wearing Jason's jeans and a challenging expression. No shirt. The ensemble looked good on him. Much better than it had ever looked on Jason, that was for damn sure.

"Not bad," I said; then I noticed something else. "My God, Jack! Is that a scar?"

"Oh, this?" he said sardonically, dropping his arms so I could fully see the dark, knotted marks on his chest. "Two scars, in fact. Or did you mean these?" And he extended his left forearm to display pale burn-tracks where some hot liquid, perhaps, had trickled across his skin.

I had risen, dismayed, and crossed the room, forgetting to be wary. I touched his other wrist, the one that bore the sparrow tattoo, tentatively. "And you've got a brand, too," I murmured. "'P' for Pirate?"

"Aye," he said, surprising me by submitting to my examination. "Courtesy of the bastards of the East India Company. Damn lucky that one didn't go on my forehead." His lips twisted in a mirthless smile; he didn't seem in the least bit drunk, anymore. "Was only a lad at the time, and the man who did it said he didn't want to disfigure my pretty little face. Thought he'd keep me, y'see..."

I did see; all too well, in fact. The look of horror must have been plain on my face, for he said, in a gruff voice, "No worries, miss. Was a good long time ago, an' I survived all right, didn't I? But there you are: that brute was what they call 'honest,' but his was a blacker soul than many a pirate I've sailed with. Now then--" he was clearly ready to change the subject-- "What say you? Do I pass muster?"

"Wellll..." I said reluctantly. "Not quite yet, Captain Sparrow. The thing is, you're still fairly...unusual-looking. It's the hair, I'm afraid. And the chin-braids _definitely_ have to go."

"My beard? My _hair_?" It was his turn to stare at me in horror. "Please tell me you're joking, m'lady."

"Sorry, Jack."

"No," he said. "I won't do it. The hair stays, and that's final. No arguin'."

"We won't have to cut it short, or anything," I said, arguing anyway. "Just...the dreads have to come out. And the beads and, er, things...And it could use a shampoo, or three." _And a fine-toothed comb_, I added mentally.

"Bollocks," he growled. "I've about had enough o' your meddling, Miss Kerr, and I ain't letting you near my hair. Savvy?"

"Come on, Captain," I pleaded. "This isn't for my own amusement, you know. You're in a different kind of world than what you're used to, now, and you've got to adapt to it. This is about _survival_, Jack. Something I gather you know quite a bit about..."

"I don't think you quite understand." He leaned against the doorframe, looking more than a little weary. "These--" and he tugged at the dangling beads-- "They're all I have left, love. Lost my ship, my crew, my blasted _world, _as you've so eloquently pointed out, and now ye'll take me trinkets, too?" He shook his head, setting the trinkets in question rattling against one another. "They're part of who I am. Without 'em, I could be _anybody_...just an ordinary chap. Without 'em, there's no Captain Jack Sparrow."

"The costume doesn't make the man," I said softly. "And somehow I doubt that you could be anyone but Jack Sparrow. As for ordinary...you couldn't be ordinary if you tried, my friend."

"That's...not entirely true." He shifted, almost uncomfortably, studying his now-clean (or mostly clean) fingernails. "I'll let you in on a secret, lass. I wasn't always Jack Sparrow. I _invented_ him, and then I became him. And before that--" he shrugs. "I was as you say. Ordinary. Without trying a great deal, either."

I found I could take this extraordinary revelation in stride; it was minor, after all, compared to the incredible fact of his continued presence in my heretofore _supremely_ ordinary life. Plus, it explained a lot--his shifts in diction, his deliberate flamboyance, and that subtle air he had of not being exactly what he seemed.

"In that case," I said, "you're used to changing your stripes, as they say. Just think of this as another disguise. If you became Jack Sparrow once, it shouldn't be too hard for you to do so again, you know."

He was silent for a space, gazing off into the middle distance; then he heaved a sigh. "All right," he said. "I can tell you'll give me no peace til the thing's done, so let's get it over with. 'Lay on, McDuff!' I must be drunker than I thought," he reflected, "else I'd never have told you so much about my personal history. 'Twas maybe two living who knew it in my own time, even, and they'd been my good mates for years before I confided in 'em."

"People tell me things," I agreed. "I guess you could say it's a gift."

"Or a curse, eh?" He tilted his head at me; his smile was real this time, a brilliant flash of gold and white. "'A little learning is a dangerous thing...'"

"'Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring?' Maybe so," I said with an answering grin. "Still, I tend to find it more useful than not."

He eyed me speculatively. "Aye, I'm sure you do, at that."

I ignored this, giving him a gentle shove back toward the bathroom. "Now, let's see what we can do with that hair of yours, Captain."

And for a wonder, he obeyed, though he hummed what sounded like a gallows dirge under his breath as he went.


End file.
